


Midnight (Redux)

by starkravingcap



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, mild PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkravingcap/pseuds/starkravingcap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve doesn't realize Tony plays the piano until he's standing in the common room watching his fingers ghost across the keys. </p>
<p>Or; Steve's been having nightmares, and Tony can't remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight (Redux)

**Author's Note:**

> What do you mean I could be doing more productive things than rewriting my own fic?
> 
> Haha, don't be silly. 
> 
> For real though, this is a rewrite of my fic by the same name that means the world to me. 
> 
>  
> 
> For Katherine, because I know this is your favourite.

Steve finds him in the open expanse of the living room, sitting behind the black grand piano by the bar. He's wearing a tattered pair of sweatpants and an old shirt with a hole cut out of it, a little opening from which the arc reactor peeks out, bathing the enamel of the piano in blue. Steve can see Tony's fingers flitting over the keys, can hear the soft sounds drifting from the open top and echoing off the high ceilings. 

It was the piano that had woken him up. Admittedly, he doesn't sleep as well as he should - since waking up from the ice, he's found that it's a lot harder to sleep with seventy missing years weighing heavy on your mind. He had woken up tonight halfway through a sleep plagued by nightmares, by memories of hanging off the side of a freight car, staring down at the snow dusting the the jagged surface of rocks at the bottom of that crevice. He had clutched the sheets in his hands, knuckles white like rows of pebbles, sweating and shaking through ragged breaths. The music was drifting through the crack in his open doorway. 

He stands, now, in the threshold of the common room, hand resting on the wall gently. Tony's fingers move languidly across the ivory keys, thin and slender. Tony has beautiful hands, Steve thinks, and it's always been true. They work with such precision, whether he's fiddling with scraps in the workshop, or pouring himself a cup of coffee in the early hours of the morning. They're a lesson in how something can be beautiful and gentle and dangerous, all at once. Steve wonders if Tony knows that about himself.

There's a certain peace in the room now, a silence that isn't a silence at all, but feels like one, and Steve doesn't know whether to break it, or whether to keep his mouth shut and breathe in the calm. He watches Tony play, understandably a little pleasantly surprised at the whole thing; Tony has never mentioned the piano, never made reference, never given any hints as to whether it was anything more than just a decoration. What else don't they know about him? 

The music stops, and Steve isn't sure what Tony's doing when he leans over the piano, his back moving in time with his breaths. The next thing he knows, Steve is taking steps towards the alcove, hands hanging limply by his sides, and the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

"I didn't know you played."

" _Jesus._ "

Tony jumps. This close, Steve can see the tumbler resting on the top of the piano, filled with ice and golden liquid. Tony's been drinking a lot more lately, and Steve doesn't like it. They may have gotten off on the wrong foot when they first met, but a little concern for a teammate's well being is healthy. Tony turns around slowly, hesitantly, the piano rumbling as his fingers drag across the keys and come to settle on his thighs.

They look at each other a minute, Steve taking in the dark circles under Tony's eyes, the shadow of stubble settling in across his jaw, in between the parts that are so carefully groomed. Steve imagines he doesn't look much better, in pyjama pants that don't fit the way they should, hair messy and disheveled from sleep. Tony reaches for the glass on the piano, takes a sip, and Steve watches the way his eyes crinkle as the liquor burns his throat. 

"Do you know what time it is?" Tony asks, voice raw and raspy and full of a little disbelief, "Why are you up?"

Steve cocks his eyebrows, "It's three in the morning. And anyway, I could ask you the same thing."

He looks at Tony then, really looks at him. The lighting is dim in the common room, dialed down almost halfway, but Steve can see the darkness in Tony's eyes, how they're glassed over and hidden by the shadows. 

"You never answered my question," Steve says then, choosing not to dwell on the look in Tony's eyes. 

"You didn't ask one." Tony notes, and there's a hint of quiet playfulness in his voice. 

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches, "All right," he says, going along with him. He takes another step towards the piano, close enough now that he can reach out and touch it. He doesn't. Tony keeps his eyes on the keys, on the floor, on anything but Steve's figure standing next to him, "How long have you played the piano?"

Tony doesn't say anything, but the corners of his mouth quirk into the ghost of a smile. His fingers glide down the keys, playing a scale, and Steve watches in thinly veiled rapture. It's fascinating, how it comes to Tony so easily, how the notes seem to drift from his fingertips. 

"A long time," Tony says eventually, his voice soft and quiet, "My mom taught me. She loved it. We had a big grand piano in the foyer of the house, and she would sit me down next to her and we would play together. Those were...that was the best time. When I got to be with her."

Steve has known Tony a while now, almost a year, almost long enough to say with a fair degree of certainty that he knows him well. And sure, their past dictates that they shouldn't really be friends. but they're no longer at each other's throats, screaming and fighting the way they had in the beginning. Still - Steve has lived in the tower for six months now, and Tony has never mentioned his mother before, only mentions his father in passing and never with the same reverence Steve has when sharing any memories he has left of Howard. 

"You've never told us. I've always thought this was just," Steve gestures at the piano and has to stop himself from saying 'another display of extravagance', "decoration." 

"Yeah, well," Tony says, the edges of his words laced with a kind of bitterness that Steve can taste, "Not exactly a pursuit worthy of or encouraged by the Starks."

Steve doesn't press, wants to visibly flinch but doesn't. Tony looks up from the keys and examines Steve's face the way he examines all things, eyes wide and working, absorbing all the information that he can. 

"My turn."

"Huh?" Steve asks, caught off guard.

"To ask you a question. It's only fair, of course." Tony looks out one of the glass panels of the common room. Outside, it's dark, and the skies are lit with the dimness of the stars and the brightness of New York. Steve doesn't know what floor they're on, only that it's an obscenely high number, and from this far up in the tower, he can see the way the city lights up like a string of Christmas bulbs.

"Okay," Steve says, with such sincerity that Tony has to hide a smile into the mouth of his tumbler. He takes a sip before he speaks again.

"Why are you up?" Tony asks finally, setting the glass on the edge of the piano and resting his hands in his lap. It's Steve's turn to do the avoiding - he doesn't let his eyes meet Tony, knows that even though Tony can be the most oblivious man in the universe, he'll know as soon as Steve looks at him that he's been having nightmares, that he's been having them since the day he _woke up_. And he's not sure he wants Tony to know that. 

He offers Tony a tight-lipped smile, hopes he won't notice, "Super soldier, remember? Don't need to sleep."

"Yeah, fuck that," Tony says, and Steve knows he's a beat man, that he can't win this one. Tony's a smart man; he knows the science behind everything, including the serum, "Even you need to sleep. What's up?"

Steve is unsure of how to respond, and that mostly boils down to the fact that this is not how Tony is supposed to be. This is Tony stripped bare, open, so far from the snarky, combative guy he knows. He's not used to it, but he likes it. 

"Nightmares," he says, laying his arms flat across his chest. He waits for an answer. 

Tony nods, his eyes meeting the ground, "Yeah. I get that," he says. And that's that; no poking, no prodding. Just Tony. 

They're quiet together for a moment, and Steve wonders if this is what it should be like. He's been trying to define home since he woke up from the ice, since his original definition was crushed by twisted metal and frozen in the Arctic Ocean. He wonders if this is what home, now, should feel like. If this is what being with Tony at three in the morning, staring out over the lights and sounds of New York, should feel like. 

"What do you dream about?" Steve asks suddenly, unable to stop the words from rushing out. Tony looks up from the tiled floor, stares at Steve inquisitively, and says nothing. Steve thinks that maybe he's said the wrong thing, and it would make sense, because Tony is unpredictable and impossible to figure out, but he doesn't get to pursue that line of thinking for much longer, because Tony speaks. 

"Lots of things," he says tentatively, turning back towards the piano, foot wandering around the pedal, pushing down lightly, "My mom, sometimes. Dad, too, but. Not so much anymore." 

Tony looks like he might say something else, but there's something in his eyes now that Steve doesn't want to drag out. He doesn't press. 

"I dream about Bucky," he says, an offer he hopes Tony takes, "What it was like before the war, before my parents died. And then sometimes I dream about him falling off the train, and I can't help him, and there's wind in his hair and beating his skin, and then - he's gone."

Music drifts back into the stillness of the air and Steve realizes that Tony is playing again. The notes sound familiar, like something out of the past. Out of a dream. Tony has his eyes shut, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as he focuses.

"And this one was...?" Tony asks, eyes still closed. Steve looks away from his face, even though Tony can't see him, and forces his eyes to the floor. 

"This one was the train."

Tony doesn't say anything, just keeps playing, and somehow Steve knows he understands. He watches as Tony reaches for his tumbler with one hand, still playing, and takes a sip. Steve's not a fan of the drinking; Tony does it too much and Steve knows he's hurting himself, he's seen the videos and he's seen it in person, but hell. It's Tony's house, and he'll do what he wants, won't he?

"New York," Tony says, voice raw. 

"Hm?"

"I dream about New York."

He admits it like its a secret, in low tones that can barely be heard above the notes of the piano, like his fear is something to be ashamed of. He admits it like a child admits they've taken the last cookie from the jar, right before dinner; head bent, hands shaking. The music drifts to a stop.

"Tony?" Steve asks. He reaches out, places a hand on Tony's shoulder and squeezes the muscle there, feels the tension drawn high into his neck. When Tony lifts his head up, he smiles weakly and looks away, "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Tony says, and he's not. Steve isn't _stupid_.

The music starts again, unhindered by the shaking in Tony's hands, and Steve wonders if it will always be this way with them; always starting and stopping. Steve squeezes Tony's shoulder again, and Tony flinches. 

"Tony," Steve says.

He misses a note. The sound is sour and broken and doesn't belong.

"I don't want to talk about it." He says, fingers stumbling this time, playing the same thing he's been playing over and over and over again, "I don't--" 

Steve cuts him off, drawing his hand away like it's been burnt, "Okay. I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine, it's--" Tony doesn't bother to finish the sentence. Steve knows what he means anyway. 

They listen to the music a little while longer, and Steve can't believe the way his hand tingles from where it had touched Tony's skin, where it had felt all the insecurity and anger and bitterness. Fear. He wants to say something; he wants to say everything. He wants to apologize for the nightmares, wants to ask Tony why it's so late, wants to know why there is so much pain behind those whiskey colored eyes. Instead he keeps silent, politely watching the alcove wall.

"What?"

He doesn't realize Tony is talking to him until his head turns towards him, and Tony's staring at him in a way that makes his chest tighten and his heart beat faster.

"What do you mean?"

"You're staring at me," Tony says, and Steve knows he's trying to play it off in the way only Tony does, with snark and humor and wit. Steve's not sure it's working, "What's up?"

"What's that song you're playing?" Steve asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Tony falters for a moment, but carries on playing, "Oh. My mom used to play it for me. It's the first one I learned. I, uh, I don't--"

"It's okay," Steve assures him, keeping his voice steady and comforting, "It's all right."

"I don't," Tony starts, swallowing thickly, "I don't remember her voice. Not her singing voice, not the way she used to--" 

He stops, breathes in through his nose, tries to compose himself. There's a pause in which Steve steps away from the wall and moves towards the piano bench. Tony looks up at him with wary, tired eyes, and he moves over, making room for Steve to sit in the edge of the bench. Their shoulders touch, and Steve can feel the heat off of Tony's body like he's the sun and Steve is the ocean. 

" _Will the circle,_ " He isn't much of a singer, but he thinks Tony needs it. Needs something, " _be unbroken? By and by, by and by, is a better home awaiting in the sky, in the sky?_ "

Tony stops playing, and this time he doesn't start again. He stares at Steve, face betraying no emotion, but those eyes doing all the talking. There's questions there; questions and sadness and maybe a little bit of admiration, and something else Steve can't place his finger on. 

"My mom used to sing it to me too," he explains, hands in his lap, "When I was sick. Which was a lot."

Tony turns his head away and starts to play again, and he hasn't answered him, but Steve knows exactly what he's trying to say, and suddenly they're both singing. Tony remembers broken verses, and Steve picks up where he leaves off, their voices raw and raspy with tiredness. 

It's nice, Steve thinks, to be so close in this moment to this man who is so much more than he seems, who is beautiful and brilliant and broken. He closes his eyes and takes in the song, reveling in the way the music drifts to an end as Tony finishes the song, and sudden warmth engulfs his hand. He looks down to see Tony's fingers, rough and callused, linked with his own. 

"The last time I sang this," Steve ventures, "Was to my mother. Before she passed."

Tony squeezes his hand and says nothing. They sit there at the piano bench, lights dim, moon bright, and the world around them searching for the sunrise. There's no better home waiting for him, Steve thinks. Not better than this one.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be taking down the original version of Midnight in a few days to replace it with this new and improved one. Thanks for reading!


End file.
